Incidental
by Cadenza at Midnight
Summary: He has to close his mouth on six sarcastic comments, a hundred questions, and several thousand other things he wants to say to her. The verbal thing has come back to him. He reminds himself: they're starting over." Lit. One-shot.


**Title:** Incidental  
**Author:** Cadenza at Midnight  
**Rating:** PG  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own: Gilmore Girls, Jess, Rory, New York City, connect-the-dots, _The Old Man and the Sea,_ _Oliver Twist,_ coffee, integrals, Pringles, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Patrick Swayze, T.S. Eliot, the idea of kissing someone "thoroughly," "Nick and Nora/Sid and Nancy," the idea of Rory and Jess's bodies/hands/whatever making a line, _Through the Looking-Glass: And What Alice Found There._ I might possibly own sludgy corners, the order of the words, and the responsibility for spoiling half of "Incidental" with this list. But even that's a stretch.  
**Author's Note:** Written for the Literati Fic Exchange, the lovechild of the brilliant, wonderful Angeleyez. Betaed by:  
-The lovely goddess Becca (radcgg), who is ten kinds of wonderful, and who ought to be paid money for reading all my R/J when she 'ships R/L.  
-The beautiful Elise (Angeleyez), whose psychic beta powers allowed her to help without ever reading the fic!  
-And the great and powerful Syf (musamea), who deserves all sorts of wonders for betaing GG fic when she only writes X-Men!

Dedicated to my mystery challenger, but also to the person who got my challenge; I humbly apologize for the hell I put you through.  
**The Challenge: **  
**_To Include:_**  
a kiss; an "I love you"; sexy, witty banter; and reciprocity from both parties  
**_Not to Include: _**  
a happy ending (an open-ended feel is so much better); any sort of dwelling about the past; and fluff  
**_Rating you want the fic to be:_** any rating is okie-dokie by me

I tried, oh ye mystery challenger; forgive me, I tried.

* * *

They make a bitter tableau: dingy hallway, with gritty piles of something suspect in all the corners; the girl, lip forgotten under her teeth, staring at the floor; the boy, hair half-ruffled, frozen in fear and anger in the doorway. Car horns, voices, and the hum that is eight million people are muffled through the walls. The boy, the girlthe sludgy cornersdo not say a word. 

It is only when a door slams on the floor below that they remember to breathe at all.

It is the boy whose thoughts first manage to begin again, and the boy who first manages to clear his throat and fears to speak. "Rory," he says, his voice emotionless.

She looks at him, wide-eyed. He half-shrugs one shoulder, tips his head, his lips pursed tightly together. She accepts the silent invitation and follows him in through the door.

* * *

She has never been one for silence, so it is no surprise when she clears her throat, fiddles a strand of hair, and begins: "Ummm...you have a nice apartment." 

A small shrug. "Sure." He is retreating under age-old patterns, regressing. He is seventeen again.

She tries again. "You must have a good jobno roommates, no underwear on the floor, no unidentified six-month-old leftovers; that's an improvement."

"I guess." Then: "You gonna tell me why you came?"

She colors and shifts her weight awkwardly. "I...wanted to see you."

"Haven't we tried this? It didn't work so hot the last time, now, did it, Rory?"

Her eyes narrow to a glare. "Because you left!"

"You didn't help much yourself, if I recall!" He stops and runs his fingers through his hair; the style no longer suits the gesture.

"Okay," he says. "Let's try this. Forget everything. All of it. Now try again."

"I love you," she blurts out, forcing out the words before convincing herself that she regrets them.

His breathing suddenly comes faster, but he wills himself to ignore the outburst, to unfocus his thoughts and start at the beginning. He clenches and unclenches his hands, his feet, his jaw, then clears his throat. "Hey."

Her eyes widen for a second before she gives a small nod.

"Hi, I'm Rory."

Jess feels himself slipping backwards again. When he speaks, his throat is dry and he sounds to his ears as if he is speaking twice. "Yeah, I figured." She is standing in his living room, looking the same and different and so damn beautiful. He takes a step toward her.

He feels, rather than sees, her hand twisting the ends of her hair, and then has to strain to hear her voice as the refrigerator motor kicks on in the kitchen. She is saying, "So, do you read?"

A smile ghosts over the muscles in his face. "Not much."

She tries again. "Read any good books lately?"

This is comfortable. This is something he had not even let himself remember that he missed. "This one about an old guy and a fish...and" He hesitates. "this other one, maybe you've heard of it. There's this kid, and he ends up getting in some trouble" If her eyes get any wider, she's going to beat Bambi for best deer-in-the-headlights look. "with some kooky street kids, you know how it is. It's like some 1800s England thing. There's a bunch of _deus ex_ plot devices, but in the end, if I remember right, he gets rescued by this angel." He pauses. "Maybe you'd like it."

She swallows, has to force her voice above a whisper. He has accidentally moved closer to her again. "I thought you said you didn't read much."

He shrugs, close enough for her to read the outlines of the hands he has stuffed into his pockets. And then a slow grin starts, his lips following the pattern of four more years' practice. "Well. What is much?"

And then she darts forward and puts her hands on either side of his face and kisses him.

This, too, is familiar. She tastes like Rory, and his lips and hands react more quickly than his mind. She tastes like twenty-five and coffee (of course) and happiness.

But then she feels like seventeen, like an awkward first kiss where he's pulling her close because any second, she's going to come to her senses and run. It's like being doused with a bucket of cold water; he pulls away.

"Something to eat?" he offers, and turns to the kitchen before she can react, before he can read her facebefore she can read his.

"Jess..." she calls, half-sigh.

He doesn't turn around. "Yeah?" She follows him into the kitchen.

This time, she really sighs. "I wasn't going to say anything dumb." He snorts. "I was just going to say I brought my lunch." She waggles a tin lunchbox in the air; it is decorated with feathers, sequins, and, quite incongruously, calculus formulas. He grins in spite of himself.

"The glam and geeky look?" he asks.

She blushes. "Lorelai. Something to do with 'integrating my style.'"

"Right."

He makes himself a salad, and they eat in silence.

When he speaks again, she jumps. "So, what you been up to lately?" He still talks around mouthfuls of food; for some reason, she is suddenly grateful.

"Not much." She rearranges her hands in her lap. "I just started graduate school..."

"Oh yeah? Just couldn't get enough of the floggings?"

"Well, you know, 'once you pop, the fun doesn't stop.'"

He snorts. "Where?" He has to close his mouth on six sarcastic comments, a hundred questions, and several thousand other things he wants to say to her. The verbal thing has come back to him. He reminds himself: they're starting over.

"Columbia. You know: 'The love of learning, the sequestered nooks / And all the sweet serenity of books.'"

"Aww, you're quoting poetry. How quaint."

She reaches over to slap him, in jest, then freezes. The line of her hand, his arm on the table, seem like the shell of a connect-the-dots puzzle: she is the start and he the finish. Dots one and sixteen do not connect.

She shakes her head, then struggles to look casual about replacing her hand on the table. "Sorry. Go on."

"About poetry?"

She laughs. "Sure. I'm very interested to see how this goes."

There is a mischievous edge to his smirk. He sits up straight, locks his hands in his lap demurely, clears his throat, and begins to recite. "'Twas brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe..."

This time, she does hit him.

* * *

When they are done with the lunch dishes, the awkwardness returns, but the edge has come off it. 

"You wanna do something?" he asks, inelegantly.

She shrugs, looks him in the eye to gauge his mood. "Strand?"

He grimaces. She laughs. "Just because they don't shelve alphabetically and by publish date does _not_ mean they're a bad bookstore. _I'm_ supposed to be the anal-retentive one here, Mister!"

"Not about books," he grouches, smirking.

She widens her eyes for theatrical effect. "What's this? What's this?" She darts around him and snatches the book from his pocket. He can't help it when his eyes widen a little; by concentration, he manages to keep his breathing even.

Rory has (perhaps) not noticed anything. She continues, "What's this? Eliot? And a crease? Oh? And the cover coming unglued? And writing on the pages? Hmm? Is there something you're not telling me...book desecrator?"

He snatches his book back from her and shoves it back in its place. His fingers get caught in hers.

He's older. He's got himself together, matured, made himself a life. He's gotten over Rory Gilmore.

He has the good grace to blush. He squeezes her hand and detaches his wayward fingers with a long-suffering sigh. "I'll get my coat."

She meets him at the door. He nearly flinches when her fingers head toward his face. He doesn't breathe until she finishes straightening the collar on his jacket, tugs the back even, slips her hand against the base of his neck.

He turns to look at her just in time to see her mouth his name to herself. He wonders what she is thinking. He shakes his head to clear his own thoughts.

"Rory...," he says.

She looks at him, blushes again, and then starts talking. Jess, who is half expecting her to kiss him, shuts his mouth with a snap.

Her voice is quiet, calm. "This doesn't have to work. There doesn't have to be anything here but an old friend, me missing an old friend. I missed talking to you about books. We can just do that. Ignore the _Dirty Dancing_ impression."

Jess says the first thing that comes to mind. "Patrick Swayze is damn ugly."

Rory smiles up at him. "Yes, and you don't look anything like him."

Jess sighs and reaches for Rory's other hand. They stand frozen in the doorway together, a different sort of tableau. "This has never worked before," he says.

She smiles firmly, as if he is a small child, and threads their fingers together. "This doesn't have to work. We're going to go look at books, Jess, come on!" She wiggles a little, and now it is she who is the small child.

He smiles again, tentatively, uses his free hand to pull her against him, kisses her thoroughly in the grungy apartment doorway. "Come on, woman, you were dragging me to your den of torture." Her smile grows.

He locks the door with one hand, because his other is occupied. She doesn't notice, and he allows himself to forget. His hand stays occupied all the way to the bookstore.


End file.
